I'm pedaling down the streets of Paris,

Wandering, wandering.

There is no place I'd rather be,

No place I'd rather go.

It's the early morning, and the streets are deserted.

It's very early, and I don't have to

Be at the cologne factory for hours.

Only the bakers are up with me and the spirits of the dead poets.

I smell the bread baking all through the streets,

And swear I can almost see the scent

Wafting on the smoke from the ovens.

And I can hear the poetry

On the echoes of the ghosts.

I'm wandering, wandering.

My mind is wandering.

A sidewalk leads me down to a trail by the river.

Artful visions, colors fill my mind.

How should I know the very spot

So famously painted

Here on La Seine?

Later this morning, I will clock in

To the cologne factory.

Seven hours, I will pretend to work.

I have found something to do

Since you are gone,

And everyday, I leave,

Smelling like a rose.

I will fall asleep at dusk, and wake,

Hours before the dawn,

To wander, to wander,

And to dream again.

-jenn